Not in the Cards
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Billy's been shot and extraction is still ten minutes out, and there's nothing Rick can do but hold him and hope for the best.


Title: Not in the Cards

Disclaimer: Seriously, do you think I own this? Really?! (Because I don't.)

A/N: Random ficlet written for **lena7142**. There are spoilers to a lot of episodes, but they're mostly just references to events and dialogue.

Summary: Billy's been shot and extraction is still ten minutes out, and there's nothing Rick can do but hold him and hope for the best.

-o-

Rick doesn't quite know what happened, but he supposes it doesn't actually matter. Things have gone wrong - things _always _go wrong - but this time Billy's been shot and extraction is still ten minutes out, and there's nothing Rick can do but hold him and hope for the best.

Scared as he is, Rick's practical and to the point. He's always known the risks of being in the CIA, and he's always faced them readily. Whether it's going into North Korea or facing a Russian prison sentence, Rick doesn't know how to turn back. He just keeps going forward. He's risked his life - and nearly lost it more than once - and he'd meant every word in the SUV in South America. He's okay with dying. He's reconciled himself to a hero's death.

But sitting there, cradling Billy while pressing down on the gushing wound in his stomach, he realizes that there's still one thing he doesn't want to face. If he's accepted the idea of his death, the idea of one of his teammates perishing...

It's unfathomable.

The ODS is larger than life; it's about impossible feats and making the most of perilous situations. They've had close calls before, but the ODS is always okay. Michael pulls out a miracle; Casey defies the odds; Billy smiles his way out of everything.

There's no miracle this time, though. There's just an extraction that's still ten minutes out and a teammate who's human and fallible, just like Rick.

"You look pensive," Billy observes, and his voice is softer and wispy somehow, his eyes glassy as he looks up at Rick.

Rick nods, remembering himself. He's so used to being the new guy that he almost fumbles the responsibility of being the one in charge. "Just thinking about the mess of paperwork after this," he lies. "I mean, we've got a compromised mission, an emergency extraction, and an injured operative. That's like...five different incidence reports, right there."

Billy chuffs softly. "Six, if you count the one for an operative killed in the line of duty," he jokes.

Rick doesn't laugh, though. "You're not dying."

Billy sighs, almost looking bemused. "I've got a bullet in my gut," he says, eyebrows knitting together. "It's been bleeding for, what, fifteen minutes now? You're adding all the pressure you can, but we both know it's not slowed. Not enough."

Rick doesn't look down at the wound. He doesn't look at the blood coating his fingers and puddling on the ground. He doesn't look.

Instead, he holds his gaze steady. "The guys are coming," he says. "You're going to be fine, and if you don't shut up, I'm totally making you do the paperwork by yourself."

"You're a bad liar, Martinez," Billy says, and his face contorts for a moment. "And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Rick shakes his head. "Nothing to be sorry for because you're going to be fine," he reiterates. "I'll even buy a round a drinks when we get back."

"Rick," Billy says, quite seriously now. "I appreciate what you're trying to do-"

"You're _fine,_" Rick interrupts emphatically. "You're going to be fine."

Billy hesitates, and then the tension drains a bit out of his body. "I wish it were true-"

"It is true," Rick insists. "And you're going to feel stupid when you wake up in a hospital and I get to say I told you so. And I'll tell you that every day, and I'll tell you that on the flight home, and I'll tell you that while you're on desk duty and when I make you fill out _every _report for the next _year._"

"Rick," Billy says, and his voice is almost soundless now. His eyes glisten, and he shakes his head minutely. "I'm sorry."

"No," Rick repeats, pressing down harder on the wound. "You've still got to teach me about driving in pursuit. And how to pick handcuffs with a paperclip. And why Rita in accounting never asks for your receipts. You have to _teach me._"

"It's not in the cards, I imagine," Billy muses, body sinking further against Rick as his eyelids start to flutter.

Rick's chest clenches painfully and he feels the sting of tears, hot and powerful behind his eyes. He grinds his teeth together and shakes his head, jostling Billy. "No," he says flatly.

Billy grimaces, tilting his head up to look at Rick. His blue eyes are tired and clouded, and he looks older than he ever has before. "They've made worms meat of me, I fear," he says. "It was bound to happen..." He breaks for a moment, swallowing with effort. "...sooner or later."

Rick shakes his head again, adamant. "No," he says again. Because he doesn't accept failure, and he doesn't accept this. Not Billy, not here, not like this. Not when Rick still has something left to fight with, not when it's not over yet. "It's like you told me on my first day: where I'm sat, you've still got a bright future with the Agency."

The memory seems distant, and it takes Billy a long moment to register it. An inscrutable expression passes over his pale face, and his lips quirk up into a sad, knowing smile. "I told you, lad," he says, chest rising and falling laboriously. "I say a lot of things I don't mean."

"Yeah, well," Rick says staunchly. "I don't. So if I say you've got cards-"

Billy's smile widens. "Then who am I to argue."


End file.
